The Oresteia: Agamemnon, the Libation-Bearers & the Furies (18 page)

But then the storm - how did it reach the ships?
How did it end? Were the angry gods on hand?

 

HERALD:

This blessed day, ruin it with
them?
Better to keep their trophies far apart.

 

When a runner comes, his face in tears,
saddled with what his city dreaded most,
the armies routed, two wounds in one,
one to the city, one to hearth and home . . .
our best men, droves of them, victims
herded from every house by the two-barb whip
that Ares likes to crack,
that charioteer
who packs destruction shaft by shaft,
careering on with his brace of bloody mares—
When he comes in, I tell you, dragging that much pain,
wail your battle-hymn to the Furies, and high time!

 

But when he brings salvation home to a city
singing out her heart -
how can I mix the good with so much bad
and blurt out this? -
‘Storms swept the Greeks,
and not without the anger of the gods!’

 

Those enemies for ages, fire and water,
sealed a pact and showed it to the world -
they crushed our wretched squadrons.
Night looming,
breakers lunging in for the kill
and the black gales come brawling out of the north -
ships ramming, prow into hooking prow, gored
by the rush-and-buck of hurricane pounding rain
by the cloudburst -
ships stampeding into the darkness,
lashed and spun by the savage shepherd’s hand!

 

But when the sun comes up to light the skies
I see the Aegean heaving into a great bloom
of corpses . . . Greeks, the pick of a generation
scattered through the wrecks and broken spars.

 

But not us, not our ship, our hull untouched.
Someone stole us away or begged us off.
No mortal - a god, death grip on the tiller,
or lady luck herself, perched on the helm,
she pulled us through, she saved us. Aye,
we’ll never battle the heavy surf at anchor,
never shipwreck up some rocky coast.

 

But once we cleared that sea-hell, not even
trusting luck in the cold light of day,
we battened on our troubles, they were fresh -
the armada punished, bludgeoned into nothing.

 

And now if one of them still has the breath
he’s saying
we
are lost. Why not?
We say the same of him. Well,
here’s to the best.
And Menelaus?
Look to it, he’s come back, and yet . . .
if a shaft of the sun can track him down,
alive, and his eyes full of the old fire -
thanks to the strategies of Zeus, Zeus
would never tear the house out by the roots -
then there’s hope our man will make it home.

 

You’ve heard it all. Now you have the truth.

 

CHORUS:

Who - what power named the name that drove your fate? -
what hidden brain could divine your future,
steer that word to the mark,
to the bride of spears,
the whirlpool churning armies,
Oh for all the world a Helen!
Hell at the prows, hell at the gates
hell on the men-of-war,
from her lair’s sheer veils she drifted
launched by the giant western wind,
and the long tall waves of men in armour,
huntsmen trailing the oar-blades’ dying spoor
slipped into her moorings,
Simois’ mouth that chokes with foliage,
bayed for bloody strife,

for Troy’s Blood Wedding Day - she drives her word,
her burning will to the birth, the Fury
late but true to the cause,
to the tables shamed
and Zeus who guards the hearth -
the Fury makes the Trojans pay!
Shouting their hymns, hymns for the bride
hymns for the kinsmen doomed
to the wedding march of Fate.
Troy changed her tune in her late age,
and I think I hear the dirges mourning
‘Paris, born and groomed for the bed of Fate!’
They mourn with their life breath,
they sing their last, the sons of Priam
born for bloody slaughter.

 

So a man once reared
a lion cub at hall, snatched
from the breast, still craving milk
in the first flush of life.
A captivating pet for the young,
and the old men adored it, pampered it
in their arms, day in, day out,
like an infant just born.
Its eyes on fire, little beggar,
fawning for its belly, slave to food.

 

But it came of age
and the parent strain broke out
and it paid its breeders back.
Grateful it was, it went
through the flock to prepare a feast,
an illicit orgy - the house swam with blood,
none could resist that agony -
massacre vast and raw!
From god there came a priest of ruin,
adopted by the house to lend it warmth.

 

And the first sensation Helen brought to Troy . . .
call it a spirit
shimmer of winds dying
glory light as gold
shaft of the eyes dissolving, open bloom
that wounds the heart with love.
But veering wild in mid-flight
she whirled her wedding on to a stabbing end,
slashed at the sons of Priam - hearthmate, friend to the death,
sped by Zeus who speeds the guest,
a bride of tears, a Fury.

 

There’s an ancient saying, old as man himself:
men’s prosperity
never will die childless,
once full-grown it breeds.
Sprung from the great good fortune in the race
comes bloom on bloom of pain -
insatiable wealth! But not I,
I alone say this. Only the reckless act
can breed impiety, multiplying crime on crime,
while the house kept straight and just
is blessed with radiant children.

 

But ancient Violence longs to breed,
new Violence comes
when its fatal hour comes, the demon comes
to take her toll - no war, no force, no prayer
can hinder the midnight Fury stamped
with parent Fury moving through the house.

 

But Justice shines in sooty hovels,
loves the decent life.
From proud halls crusted with gilt by filthy hands
she turns her eyes to find the pure in spirit -
spurning the wealth stamped counterfeit with praise,
she steers all things towards their destined end.

Come, my king, the scourge of Troy,
the true son of Atreus -
How to salute you, how to praise you
neither too high nor low, but hit
the note of praise that suits the hour?
So many prize some brave display,
they prefer some flaunt of honour
once they break the bounds.
When a man fails they share his grief,
but the pain can never cut them to the quick.
When a man succeeds they share his glory,
torturing their faces into smiles.
But the good shepherd knows his flock.
When the eyes seem to brim with love
and it is only unction, fawning,
he will know, better than we can know.
That day you marshalled the armies
all for Helen - no hiding it now -
I drew you in my mind in black;
you seemed a menace at the helm,
sending men to the grave
to bring her home, that hell on earth.
But now from the depths of trust and love
I say Well fought, well won -
the end is worth the labour!
Search, my king, and learn at last
who stayed at home and kept their faith
and who betrayed the city.

 

AGAMEMNON:

First,
with justice I salute my Argos and my gods,
my accomplices who brought me home and won
my rights from Priam’s Troy - the just gods.
No need to hear our pleas. Once for all
they consigned their lots to the urn of blood,
they pitched on death for men, annihilation
for the city. Hope’s hand, hovering
over the urn of mercy, left it empty.
Look for the smoke - it is the city’s seamark,
building even now.
The storms of ruin live!
Her last dying breath, rising up from the ashes
sends us gales of incense rich in gold.

 

For that we must thank the gods with a sacrifice
our sons will long remember. For their mad outrage
of a queen we raped their city - we were right.
The beast of Argos, foals of the wild mare,
thousands massed in armour rose on the night
the Pleiades went down, and crashing through
their walls our bloody lion lapped its fill,
gorging on the blood of kings.
Our thanks to the gods,
long drawn out, but it is just the prelude.

And your concern, old man, is on my mind.
I hear you and agree, I will support you.
How rare, men with the character to praise
a friend’s success without a trace of envy,
poison to the heart - it deals a double blow.
Your own losses weigh you down but then,
look at your neighbour’s fortune and you weep.
Well I know. I understand society,
the flattering mirror of the proud.
My comrades . . .
they’re shadows, I tell you, ghosts of men
who swore they’d die for me. Only Odysseus:
I dragged that man to the wars but once in harness
he was a trace-horse, he gave his all for me.
Dead or alive, no matter, I can praise him.

 

And now this cause involving men and gods.
We must summon the city for a trial,
found a national tribunal. Whatever’s healthy,
shore it up with law and help it flourish.
Wherever something calls for drastic cures
we make our noblest effort : amputate or wield
the healing iron, burn the cancer at the roots.

 

Now I go to my father’s house -
I give the gods my right hand, my first salute.
The ones who sent me forth have brought me home.

Victory, you have sped my way before,
now speed me to the last.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

Old nobility of Argos
gathered here, I am not ashamed to tell you
how I love the man. I am older,
and the fear dies away . . . I am human.
Nothing I say was learned from others.
This is my life, my ordeal, long as the siege
he laid at Troy and more demanding.
First,
when a woman sits at home and the man is gone,
the loneliness is terrible,
unconscionable . . .
and the rumours spread and fester,
a runner comes with something dreadful,
dose on his heels the next and his news worse,
and they shout it out and the whole house can hear;
and wounds - if he took one wound for each report
to penetrate these walls, he’s gashed like a dragnet,
more, if he had only died ...
for each death that swelled his record, he could boast
like a triple-bodied Geryon risen from the grave,
‘Three shrouds I dug from the earth, one for every body
that went down!’
The rumours broke like fever,
broke and then rose higher. There were times
they cut me down and eased my throat from the noose.
I wavered between the living and the dead.

our child is gone, not standing by our side,
the bond of our dearest pledges, mine and yours;
by all rights our child should be here . . .
Orestes. You seem startled.
You needn’t be. Our loyal brother-in-arms
will take good care of him, Strophios the Phocian.
He warned from the start we court two griefs in one.
You risk all on the wars - and what if the people
rise up howling for the king, and anarchy
should dash our plans?
Men, it is their nature,
trampling on the fighter once he’s down.
Our child is gone. That is my self-defence
and it is true.
For me, the tears that welled
like springs are dry. I have no tears to spare.
I’d watch till late at night, my eyes still burn,
I sobbed by the torch I lit for you alone. ,

I never let it die . . . but in my dreams
the high thin wail of a gnat would rouse me,
piercing like a trumpet - I could see you
suffer more than all
the hours that slept with me could ever bear.

 

I endured it all. And now, free of grief,
I would salute that man the watchdog of the fold,
the mainroyal, saving stay of the vessel,
rooted oak that thrusts the roof sky-high,
the father’s one true heir.
Land at dawn to the shipwrecked past all hope,
light of the morning burning off the night of storm,
the cold clear spring to the parched horseman -
O the ecstasy, to flee the yoke of Fate!

 

It is right to use the titles he deserves.
Let envy keep her distance. We have suffered
long enough.

Come to me now, my dearest,
down from the car of war, but never set the foot
that stamped out Troy on earth again, my great one.

Women, why delay? You have your orders.
Pave his way with tapestries.

Quickly.
Let the red stream flow and bear him home
to the home he never hoped to see — Justice,
lead him in!
Leave all the rest to me.
The spirit within me never yields to sleep.
We will set things right, with the god’s help.
We will do whatever Fate requires.

 

AGAMEMNON:

There
is Leda’s daughter, the keeper of my house.
And the speech to suit my absence, much too long.
But the praise that does us justice,
let it come from others, then we prize it.
This -
you treat me like a woman. Grovelling, gaping up at me -
what am I, some barbarian peacocking out of Asia?
Never cross my path with robes and draw the lightning.
Never- only the gods deserve the pomps of honour
and the stiff brocades of fame. To walk on them . . .
I am human, and it makes my pulses stir
with dread.